Mascara Trails
by Not Quite
Summary: Righto, Remus. You just keep telling yourself that. And then she's out of the car, turning her face to the rain and he watches as the mascara smudges become trails. OneShots LupinTonks HBP Spoilers
1. Mascara Trails

AN: Well, what's there to say? This contains some HBP spoilers. Read and reveiw, please.

Disclaimer: It's not mine and I know it. You should too.

* * *

"I'm not going to go." 

He turns to look at her, and of course she's all wide eyes and determination. He simply stares.

"To the funeral." She elaborates, as though Remus needs it. She's looking out the window, tracing the patterns of the rain running down the windows with her finger. The funeral. The fucking funeral. He's not sure he's even processed it all yet, that Dumbledore is really and truly gone.

"I just can't. I can't." She's grabbed at his hand now, studying it as though it's some rare piece of art.

"People'll be crying, Remus."

"That's what the general public seems to do at these type of things, Tonks." He replies wearily, using his free hand to scrape across his face, slightly disgusted by the stubble there. She makes an odd sort of sighing noise, and he realizes that she herself is holding back tears.

"_Nymphadora_..."

"Don't you dare!" She hisses, snatching her hand from his and nibbling on a fingernail that's coated with peeling polish. They sit there, in his battered excuse for a Muggle car, watching as people make mad dashes across the street hoping to escape the rain. He wonders idly at those who have folded newspapers and hold them over their heads, do they realize how futile an effort it is? He feels obligated to say something to her, but isn't sure what. He'd desperately like cigarette or a stiff drink, but can't for the life of him remember where he'd put the pack. Most of all he'd just like to pretend that everything is peachy and kiss her.

"I'm going to shove off, then." She says suddenly, looking back at him with puffy eyes and smudged mascara.

"It's pouring."

"How observant." She unfolds her legs from what looks like a highly uncomfortable position and stares at him for a moment, gnawing at her lower lip. "I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of Harry. Fucking_ stupid_ of me, actually. Sorry bout' that." She doesn't sound terribly sorry.

For a moment he hasn't the faintest idea what she means, but then it hits him. Her little declaration over Bill at St. Mungoes. It had terrified him, actually, and he wasn't ready to explore just what this meant. Ready to explore just how he had managed to fuck _this_ up, this quasi-relationship that they had.

"I'm not..." He starts, but closes his mouth when a wry smile crosses her face and she quirks an eyebrow.

"Righto, Remus. You just keep telling yourself that." And then she's out of the car, turning her face to the rain and he watches as the mascara smudges become trails. "Your fags are in the glove compartment." She tells him as she slams the door and disappears under an awning, her pink hair fading into the background. He wonders if feeling like a complete fuck-up has become routine as he reaches across the seat to open the glove compartment.


	2. Soup and Sandwiches

Hogwarts itself never seems to change, and something about that is highly disquieting to Remus as he stares up at the castle. Doesn't seem right to smoke here, no matter how much his fingers itch for a fag. He notes the vast sea of red hair that indicates that the Weasleys are all here. He ought to go and ask about Bill, if the young man is making any progress. As it turns out, he doesn't have to, because apparently Molly has found him.

"Remus, dear. There you are." She says, clutching at his arm in a vise-like grip. Arthur Weasley appears behind her, tired and somber looking.

"Lupin." He says by way of greeting, bowing his head slightly. Remus finds himself returning the gesture.

"Now, I've brought you something to heat up, Remus." Molly tells him, fishing around in an alarmingly large carpetbag and producing a sealed container of what appears to be some sort of soup. "You never eat enough." She mutters fretfully, and her eyes are brimming with tears that he suspects have nothing at all to do with him.

"Now, Molly." Arthur says gently, "I think we should find our seats."

"Of course, Arthur. Oh, for the love of Merlin, Ron's tie isn't straight." She says, and Lupin follows her gaze to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione in a small group of their friends. He notes that Ginny Weasley seems awfully close to Harry and fights the sudden constriction in his throat at the sight of them looking so damn much like Lily and James. Arthur and Molly drift away, and he's left standing there, clutching the ridiculous container of soup to his chest for all he's worth. People shuffle to their seats, and for some reason he feels so horribly out of place that he swallows and turns away from the large white coffin and starts walking.

"Oh. You're leaving, then." He turns to see her standing there, wearing a brazenly out of place set of blue robes that clash vividly with her hair. He's not surprised that she's come after all.

"Considering it, yes. Lovely robes, by the way." She glances down, a frown crossing her face.

"S'all I had clean. Didn't want to show up smelling like takeout."

"Ah."

The silence stretches between them until she smiles wanly.

"I see you've got soup. Molly hit me up with sandwiches. She's got a regular arsenal in that bag." The lump in his throat is back, and he tries to fight off the feeling that he ought to be kissing her.

"Yes, well. Apparently I'm a charity case. Not that I'm complaining, of course, because I happen to know that Molly Weasley makes excellent soup."

"I suppose that if we sit through this, we could head off to the Hog's Head for a drink afterwards." She says nonchalantly, crossing her arms and squinting up at the castle. He knows perfectly well that they'll go to a Muggle bar instead, someplace with a band, and then they'll go back to her flat and muss her sheets. He's quite fond of her flat, really.

"Right. Though that would in fact cut into Dung and I's quality time."

"You're a wanker."

"Dually noted."

And then she's grabbing his hand, and he realizes that he's grabbing back with his own quiet desperation.


	3. Love's Martyr

AN: Well, wow. These just keep coming. Damn muse. Just wanted be be sure everybody understands that this is a series of one-shots, not short and badly written chapters. Heh heh.

Many thanks to my reveiwers, especially Aegle, who is my fanfiction heroine.You guys push me to write more, which is evil. :) And a shout out to my lovely friend Katelyn, who upon reading the first two vignettes had this to say:

"For a second, I thought there was a bunch of gay people in Remus Lupin's glove compartment. Worry not, I get it. "

* * *

She's laying in the crook of his arm, tracing the scars on his chest so lightly that he can barely feel her touch at all. It occurs to him that he has work to do for the Order, that he should be looking after Harry, that he ought to trying to track down Sape, that he shouldn't be here in her flat.

"When d' think you're finally going to crack, Lupin?" She asked lazily, never stopping her ministrations.

"What now?" He asks hoarsely, wishing he could fall asleep here and not have to face the world ever again. She stops her tracing and lays her hand firmly on his chest.

"When will you admit it, I mean." He opens one eye, catches slight of vividly pink hair and sighs.

"Admit what?"

She sighs mightily, and sits up.

"Bugger, Remus. That you need me." He doesn't say anything for a bit, merely opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, making a mental note of the water spots. She turns away from him, clambering out the bed and snatching a robe from a pile of laundry on the floor. He turns his head to look at her, to see that she's biting down on her lip again. The robe is far too big for her, and he wishes it didn't make her look so curiously small.

"_Right_." She whispers, heading for the bedroom door. Or lack thereof, really, he corrects himself, because her door is just a curtain of beads that occasionally catch the sunlight. "Loony Lupin, love's martyr." She laughs softly, and he hates that it's tainted with bitterness. And the beads are starting to part when he lets out a great heaving breath that he hadn't even realized that he'd been holding and says, "Tonks. Don't go." He's thinking he ought to have worded it better, because it's her fucking flat, and he should be the one who leaves it. But then the pieces are sliding together in his head and he realizes he doesn't want to be love's martyr, because martyrs leave behind babies and great gaping voids where there used to laughter and light. He's resigned to the wetness on his cheeks, the silent tears that seem so out of place in Tonk's flat that is so full of color and comfort. She stops, and studies him intently.

"Oh. _Remus_." And she lets the fucking robe drop to the floor, and is across the room and back under the sheets. He holds her close to him, watching the beads sway back and forth and thanking whatever gods are listening that Tonks didn't give up on him.

For once, he'll let himself fall asleep in her bed and not regret it in the morning, and he wonders if that's what love really is.

* * *

AN: You know what's a good song to write Lupin/Tonks to? Here in My Room by Incubus.

**This party is old and uninviting  
Participants all in black and white  
You enter in fullblown technicolor  
Nothing is the same after tonight**

**If the world would fall apart  
In a fiction worthy wind  
I wouldn't change a thing  
Now that you're here**

**Yeah, love is a verb here in my room  
Here in my room, here in my room**

**You enter and close the door behind you  
Now show me the world as seen from the stars  
If only the lights would dim a little  
I'm weary about eyes upon my scars**

**Pink tractor beam into your incision  
Head spinning as free as dervishs' whirl  
I came here expecting next to nothing  
So thank you for being that kind of girl  
That kind of girl**

More one-shots if so compelled by muse and reveiws.


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